


Needs Must

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the best possible compliment that he could give her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! So this story came to me at four this morning (you know, when I would have much rather been asleep...). It's theoretically a 5:1 format, but theory and I never got along. This might be a hot mess, especially since it's unbeta'd. Sorry.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and its characters are not my creations or property. No copyright infringement is intended. There are excerpts from serveral episodes (ASiP, TRF, TEH), and those lines are the work of Mark Gatiss, Stephen Thompson, and probably Steven Moffat. Can't remember. Additionally, see if you can spot the Miss Congeniality line! Winner gets a bro fistbump.

* * *

_**Needs Must** _

* * *

"Molly, I need you."

Sherlock Holmes' strident voice cut through the previous quiet of the lab. Molly Hooper jerked back from a chromatograph printout, blinking in surprise at the sudden interruption. Recovering quickly, she straightened on her stool, happy as always to see the man standing at the door.

When she didn't jump to her feet, anticipating the reason for his visit, Sherlock's eyes kicked up in an expressive roll. "In the morgue. You mentioned a body that wouldn't be used by your students?"

"Oh, right!" Molly hurried around the counter and over to him, grabbing her key card from its hook. She'd noticed Sherlock eyeballing it as she approached, and when her fingers closed around the plastic card, she might have even picked up on a quiet sigh of disappointment. She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended that he'd not yet tried to pickpocket her.

In the morgue, she pulled out the cold storage slab and moved the bagged body onto a wheeling cart, pushing it over to where Sherlock waited. As she moved back around the cart, Molly watched him through her lashes, studying him and weighing… things. She'd told herself that the next time she saw him would be _the time_. But now that he stood there, filling the room as he always did, she felt a sudden show of nerves roiling her stomach.

 _It never hurts to show up and ask,_ her father's voice reminded her. It had been a favorite saying of his, to the point that Molly had often teased him about it. That, and _Faint heart never won fair lady._

The mental nudge helped, but she decided to take her time. Maybe throw on some Lancôme lipstick for confidence. Pulling in a steadying breath, she returned her attention to Sherlock, who was busy unzipping the body bag and peering inside.

"How fresh?" he asked the body.

Since Ned Coleman likely wouldn't reply, Molly stepped in, bolstered and excited both by the gleam of _Science_ in Sherlock's eyes as well as her own, recent decision. "Just in," she said. "Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here." She smiled fondly at Ned's pallid face. "I knew him. He was nice."

Whirling back around, Sherlock smiled thinly. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."

* * *

"Molly, come here," Sherlock hailed her as she stepped into the lab, before adding as an afterthought, "please."

Only too glad to delay typing up a dry report for a few more minutes, Molly made her way over to him. Following the direction of his gaze, she found a spread of photographs and reports strewn across the high lab counter.

"What is it—" she started to ask and then she broke off, squinting at the picture of a cadaver's chest. "Who did this post-mortem?"

Sherlock _hmm_ ed in—something. Disinterest? Agreement? Pleasure that he wouldn't have to spell out the _wrongness_ of the situation? "Who?" he asked rhetorically. "A cretin did it; your counterpart, Der Erlkönig. _Why_ did he do it, though? Your work is leagues less horrible."

Molly was torn between bristling in defense for a colleague and very nearly preening at the implied compliment. Coming from Sherlock, 'leagues less horrible' was no faint praise. But some small iota of loyalty won out.

"First of all, we've discussed this. _Doctor_ _Koenig_ is not an elf who kidnaps small children. He's a Specialist Registrar, like me. Secondly, I can't process every, single body that ends up on a Barts slab, Sherlock. I do have to leave this place sometimes to bathe and eat." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but she waved the photograph in his face to stop him. "That said, I'm surprised at how shoddy this is."

"They do have showers and a cantine here, you know," he said under his breath. Molly arched an eyebrow at him, so he changed the subject. "You'll be saddened to hear that the one-man Goethe tragedy is back on the sauce. He was blotto when he did this post-mortem."

Too used to Sherlock to ask how he'd gleaned this, she could only agree that Koenig must have fallen off the wagon if this was indeed his work. Feeling sad for the man who'd joined the histopathology team at the same time as she, Molly shook her head and made a mental note to talk to Mike about it. "So what did you want?"

"Do you agree with his findings; that this person died of cardiac tamponade?"

Surprised, Molly stared at him. "You need my opinion?"

Tsking impatiently, Sherlock huffed, "I believe that's just what I asked of you. One of us went to medical school, and it wasn't I. I could figure it out, of course, but you're so much handier."

Heat suffused Molly's cheeks, and she ducked her head. Sure, telling her that she was _handy_ was a bit off-putting, but again, she had to consider the source. She chose to ignore the fact that Sherlock didn't sound pleased that this was something he didn't just know and that he'd had to ask.

Realizing he was still waiting for an answer, she cleared her throat and picked up a second picture, this one an anterior shot of the lungs and then she grabbed Koenig's report. Studying them, she explained, "Errol wasn't wrong about the pulmonary edema. The lungs are lousy with it. And you'll have to bear in mind that it's tricky when I can't see the organs in person."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved away her disclaimer. "What do you observe?"

"It's just… I don't see any fluid in the sacs around the heart. So I'm not entirely sure why Errol diagnosed it as tamponade; this isn't a healthy heart, but it's not effusive."

"So you think it was a heart attack, instead?" he pressed her.

Molly stared at the picture. "I can see signs of ablation and an arterial screw-in lead on the heart. But there's something on the lateral atrial wall. I—I think it's a perforation."

"Ah." Sherlock leaned back, a feline smile curving his lips. And then in a flurry of movement, he began gathering up his photographs and graphs (yanking the picture and report from Molly's hands) and stuffing them into a folder before tucking it inside the Belstaff that he'd hastily donned.

"Why are you on this case?" she asked him, curiously. "If Koenig found the cause of death to be natural, what prompted you to investigate?"

Almost skipping to the door, Sherlock called over his shoulder, "The victim's widow hired me. Apparently the cardiologist who operated on him three years ago was a friend. Weekly poker games or some other hell of human interaction. But the good doctor found out the victim was carrying on with his wife. "

"So he botched inserting the lead? That's taking a big chance that something would go wrong after a long delay."

Sherlock shrugged blithely, smirking. "He was a gambler. Perhaps he decided to let the chips fall where they may." He pushed the door open, fishing his mobile out of his pocket as he stepped into the hall. Just as Molly thought he was going to leave without saying goodbye—nothing new, really—he paused and glanced back at her. "Thank you. You'll likely be called to give Expert Witness testimony on the matter. In the meantime, I shall let you know when I require your opinion again."

Molly nodded, wordlessly. Sherlock had thanked her before, albeit briskly and likely out of some ingrained politeness that even he couldn't fully expel, but he had never before admitted that he might need her expertise in the future. She grinned and stared at the door, thinking about how wonderfully her day was going, and it was only mid-morning.

Before it could click shut, a gloved hand caught the heavy door and pulled it back open. Molly quickly schooled her expression, looking expectantly at Sherlock as he leaned back into the room.

"And, Molly, I can hardly be faulted for the fact that Koenig's parents named him _Errol_. It's like they _wanted_ people even mildly acquainted with Schubert to make fun of him. Idiots."

Then, with the tip of an imaginary hat, he was gone again, and this time he didn't reappear.

* * *

She had tried to distract herself for the remaining six hours of her shift. Even before Sherlock and John had come to the lab earlier, the prospect of eighteen hours in the stuffy lab had felt laborious. After she'd had that unsettling talk with Sherlock, she felt raw and out of sorts, and each minute crept by.

Though he'd not admitted to it, she _knew_ there was something wrong with Sherlock. The strain around his eyes, the slight down-tilt of his lips. Little micro-expressions that few would cotton on to. Few beyond Molly Hooper, that was. It appeared that some things never changed. There she was: the odd child who'd always disquieted people with her intuitive grasp on matters that were better left well enough alone.

Sighing, she began gathering her belongings, wondering if her worry for Sherlock would pause and let her get some sleep before she had to be back at Barts in eight hours. She was hardly his friend. A little pain in her heart still made itself known every time she had to acknowledge it. It wasn't for lack of desire on her part. She wanted him in so many ways. Being his friend when he had so few was one of her dearest wishes. Sometimes, she almost thought she'd managed it, but then something would come along to disprove it. The Ghost of Christmas Last cleared its throat loudly, lest she get any delusions of grandeur.

It only made it harder when moments like this arose. She tried to remember that he clearly wasn't even confiding in John with whatever was troubling him. It should have made her feel better.

 _At least you tried to help_ , she told herself.

It was cold comfort.

Sighing and trying to ease stiff muscles, she flicked off the light and moved to the lab door, already enjoying the quiet dark much more than the halogen glare in the hall ahead of her.

"You're wrong, you know."

Somehow, she didn't yelp when he spoke from behind her. She jumped and whirled around, breath still trying to catch up with her brain's acknowledgement that she didn't need to weigh options of fight or flight.

She couldn't speak as she stared at his profiled silhouette. Something told her, _Wait._

"You do count," he said lowly, still staring at the shelves in front of him. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you." His eyes caught the light from the hallway as he finally turned. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

Heart thudding, she stepped closer to him, and she finally let herself speak. "Tell me what's wrong," she insisted.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

It wasn't a surprise, and yet her chest ached and her throat burned at his admission, his tone so resigned. "What do you need?"

He began moving closer again, his eyes not wavering from hers. "If I wasn't everything you think I am; everything _I_ think I am, would you still want to help me?"

For some reason, that more than anything made her want to weep. That he'd even have to ask her. But somehow, she managed only to repeat herself. "What do you need?"

He didn't stop until he stood right before her, his eyes dark pools as he looked at her. And he didn't even hesitate when he said, "You."

* * *

Hoping that Sherlock wasn't expecting a refrigerator's worth of body parts on such short notice, Molly took the risk of arriving at Baker Street empty-handed. He'd summoned her on her day off and they'd had once had an argument when he'd realized that her own flat had an absolute dearth of scientific specimens. She felt somewhat confident that he remembered her refusal to budge on the issue. He'd not asked for anything the last time he'd dropped in, at least.

Tugging at her gloves, she felt a mirroring tug of something else in her gut when the knitted wool caught on her ring ( _The tug of a Happy Reminder_ , she told herself again, as she had over and over in the last month). She decided it was smarter to delay removing her outerwear, in case Sherlock had only called her over to fetch his mobile. The irony that he'd contacted her using said mobile was often lost on him.

When he didn't greet her, though she was sure he was aware that she had arrived, she decided to jump in and get that mobile-fetching ball rolling.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked. Seeing Sherlock restored to his home swamped her with equal parts happiness and pride that she'd been able to help him, and she couldn't help but smile as he turned around.

"Yes," he replied loudly. The tone was rather bombastic for Sherlock, but Molly refrained from showing any surprise. Perhaps he had been thinking of murder, or maybe he was just excited to get his mobile back. She could see it waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

But then he stepped towards her, and he suddenly looked… well, he looked _nervous._ "Molly…."

A lesser person might have quipped that he did, indeed, know her name. She'd always been quite bad about making nervous jokes. Instead she gently prompted him, hoping to put him at ease by busying herself with finally removing her gloves in earnest. "Yes?"

Another step. "Would you…." He came to a halt a few feet in front of her and stared down at his feet, and she was struck by the strange dichotomy between that breathless moment in the Barts lab when he told her he needed _her_ and this moment, where she was somehow sure that the stakes weren't literally life or death.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock looked back up at her. "Would you like to…"

She decided to help him out. Perhaps he was hungry. So she suggested, "Have dinner?"

Unfortunately, her supplement came just as he finally managed to say, "Solve crimes?"

Molly made noise of realization, but then something about the way Sherlock was staring at her had her narrowing her eyes in turn. He was looking at her as if her request was something sordid. Beyond that, and she would never ask him about it, she was almost certain that he was _blushing._

Shaking off the odd staring contest and the thought that she'd somehow, mystifyingly flustered Sherlock Holmes, Molly beamed at him. Crime solving outside of a forensic lab setting was not something she'd done before, and she was only too eager to say yes. Still, perhaps it was a nudging prompt from the…. _Happy Reminder_ on her finger that had her asking, "Why me?"

Carelessly yanking what was likely an obscenely expensive dressing gown from his shoulders, Sherlock actually replied candidly. "I need company. I believe yours will do quite nicely." As he strode back towards his bedroom he added, "and it's not like I'm interrupting anything crucial for you."

Molly stared at his retreating back, and found herself adopting a Cockney accent. "One brief, shining moment, and then that mouth."

All the same, she stripped off her remaining outerwear and hung it by the door next to Sherlock's coat and scarf. She smiled goofily at the strange domesticity of the sight, before her blasted (no! _Happy Reminder_!) ring chose to snag her jumper in remonstrance, and she swore soundly and set to work on setting herself loose from her self-made snare. As she growled low in her throat and pulled yarn away from the diamond's settings, she assured herself that this wasn't in any way, shape, or form a metaphor for her life.

That would be ridiculous.

* * *

"Molly. Molly. Molly," he panted against the skin between her shoulder blades, before moving his lips up to the nape of her neck. His body was a hot blanket covering hers, and the swelter only fueled them on.

She somehow made a noise in acknowledgment, though every muscle in her body was coiled and ready, and it was hard to breathe, let alone converse with him.

One thing Molly had quickly learned was that even in their moments of rawest intimacy, Sherlock was _chatty._ She wouldn't trade it for the world, but she could only spare fleeting hope that she wasn't offending him with her lack of reciprocal talk.

If the past twelve weeks were any sort of indicator, he wasn't put off in the least.

As one arm wormed its way between the press of their bodies and the mattress, curling around her belly to tug her closer to him, his other hand clamped over hers, joining her in a death grip on the bed sheet. He continued to murmur encouragement and strange endearments into her skin. She vaguely caught her name and a few compliments about the way she was making him feel, but mostly his voice was just a low growl.

She smiled, and it only widened when he lifted his head to look at her face, before ducking down to nuzzle her cheek and kiss her sweetly.

Molly was so happy, and she didn't think it was a reckless assumption to believe that Sherlock was, too.

A half hour later, they lay sprawled across his bed. She rolled onto her side, trying to find a more comfortable position as his bony hip dug into her neck where she rested her head on his belly. She looked up the length of his torso to find him smiling down at her. He could look so dazzlingly unguarded with her, and continually caught her unaware; that he was even _capable_ of dropping his guard, and that he would do so almost solely for _her_.

His long fingers combed through her damp hair, pushing it back from her face and then fanning it across her shoulder and chest.

Content to wallow, Molly smiled back at him, and turned her head enough to press a kiss to his stomach.

When she finally decided that she should move—she had to work tomorrow, after all—she laughed a little as he actually sulked.

"My cat lacks opposable thumbs, Sherlock. He can't feed himself. And I need to sleep." She rolled up to a sitting position, though she couldn't bring herself to break all physical contact with him. So she walked her fingers up and down the inside of his arm, stroking the soft skin there. She only stopped when his eyes darkened dangerously. "And on that note, I should be going." She started to withdraw her hand, but he snatched it back, pulling it to his chest so he could busy himself playing with her fingers.

"You could bring the cat next time. Stay the night. My bed is far better than your ASDA nightmare."

Molly knew he was only just short of asking her to make it a permanent stay. Mary had wrestled the "goss" from him (Molly wasn't clear on the details, but somehow threats had come into play, as they only could when it came to Sherlock and Gossip inhabiting the same sentence) and then Mary had promptly told Molly what she'd learned.

Though she felt confident in Sherlock's affections, Molly couldn't overcome a lifetime of cautious approach, and so she waited quietly, figuring Sherlock would ask her when he was ready, and she would be able to take full consideration when the time came. At present, she was perfectly content to spend nights with him here and there, but still have a quiet flat to return to when she needed it.

So, instead, she just pinched him gently. "I'll have you know, it's an IKEA mattress. And it was one of the high-end ones. You would be _lucky_ to own something so fine."

"You aren't doing much to promote their business," he said blandly, and Molly snickered. Sherlock watched her for a moment, his lips still curved happily, before he once again adopted a smoldering look and tone. "Stay tonight. I need you."

It wasn't a bucket of cold water or anything remotely moribund. To her, it wasn't melancholy that had her smile slipping just a little, but rather the first whisper of the idea that melancholia could someday visit.

She wasn't looking for declarations of undying love or any of that rot. Sherlock loved her. She loved him. Again, she didn't think she was making bad assumptions.

But…. _Need_.

It had colored so much of their relationship. The nature of that need had become more and more personal and emotional over the years. Where Sherlock had initially needed _things_ from her, slowly, he came to need _her._ Her help, her support, her belief in him.

When he found his way into her arms, and starting needing her heart… well, that was when she started to wish for one slight difference.

But not so much that she said anything. In fact, the little pang of longing was so slight that she doubted he'd ever pick up on it.

Some day she might actually broach the subject with him, but not that night. So she moved her small hands up to cup his face, tickling the shells of his ears a little as she kissed him soundly.

When she drew back, Sherlock sighed gustily and with regret. Just as Molly thought he'd resigned himself to her departure, he said, "Well, now you've done it." Quick as a shot, his arms darted around her and he pulled her to him, rolling her underneath him as he kissed her deeply.

"Sherlock," she mumbled hazily, "I really need to go."

"Yes, yes," he said dismissively. "Give me one more hour."

 _It's a small concession_ , Molly told herself, feeling gracious and selfless as he pulled the sheet up over their heads, blocking out light and interruptions from the small world of his bed. When she moaned at his ministrations and he smiled against her skin, she decided some sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. Sherlock was both great and good: a truly noble pursuit.

* * *

He dropped heavily onto her bed. Through heavy eyelids, she saw him blink owlishly up at her ceiling. "Problem at you flat?" she mumbled, before scowling and moving away from the cold drool patch on her pillow.

Sherlock made a noise of assent. "The pipes keep clanking. I can't be expected to work in such a disruptive environment."

Tacitly agreeing with herself not to bring up her own, groaning wall radiator in her bedroom, Molly made a sound that she hoped was somewhat sympathetic. She suspected it might have actually been a sympathetic coo/snore hybrid, but Sherlock was too lost in thought to mention it.

She flailed an arm out and patted his shoulder lovingly before tucking it back in under her body. Sherlock often informed her that she wouldn't cut off the circulation to her limbs if she could just stop sleeping like an upside-down mummy. Molly often suggested that Sherlock wouldn't be able to control his grippy, octopus limbs even if she tied him down, so he had no room to lecture.

That had only excited him, so she had started trying to think of a different comparison to get her point across. In the meantime, she accepted his snarking with quiet dignity as he rubbed her arms briskly in the mornings that they woke up together.

"I mean, the location of the box really is obvious, but I just can't find the middle step that will take me from Point A to Conclusion C," Sherlock said, apropos of nothing.

Molly muttered into her pillow, stubbornly squeezing her eyes shut.

"So maybe if I trace back from my conclusion, I can solve it that way. I've always managed to solve maze puzzles that way. Yes, that is good." He started drumming his fingers in thought against Molly's back, and she wondered if she could deliver a sharp enough kick to his shins, pinned as she was underneath duvet with him on top of it.

When his ponderings and self-congratulations carried on for another hour and Molly still hadn't managed to fall asleep, she'd finally had enough.

"Sherlock. Light of my life, if you don't shut up right now, I'm going to go to Baker Street and leave you here."

He sniffed petulantly. "I need you here."

She was exhausted, and that always made her embarrassingly emotional. That was the only reason she felt the type of headache-inducing tears that tiredness often brought on, and the only reason why she jerkily rolled to her side, facing away from Sherlock.

"Right," she said dully. "You _need_ me."

The room was utterly quiet for several beats and then Sherlock asked quietly, "Have I upset you, Molly?"

Molly started to shake her head, but then she decided to grow some ovaries and tell him about her nagging agitation. "I wish you didn't _just_ need me."

"What?" He sounded wholly confused.

"You only tell me you need me," she repeated.

"You think I'm using you." It wasn't a question.

His words had her rolling over quickly and reach for him, urgently needing to correct him. "No! No, I don't. I think you love me and I think you value me." She pressed several kisses to his neck and face, wanting him to understand.

She was pleased that he didn't contradict her assessment of his feelings for her. But his brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand, then. Why are you upset that I need you?"

Rolling onto her back to mirror his staring contest with the darkened overhead light, Molly struggled to articulate what was bothering her. "To me, the need you had for me in the past was a very cut and dried thing. The _type_ of need changed as we worked our way towards each other, but that doesn't change the definition of the word."

"Which is?" he asked. She was pleased that he was following her, that he recognized that the connotations she was speaking of required a very precise description. He could have spouted off the Oxford English Dictionary's definition, but instead, he waited quietly, wanting to understand.

Moments like that often struck Molly the most profoundly: just how much they both had changed. She was expressing what was bothering her even though it upset her, and Sherlock was working with her to figure it out.

"Need is _requirement_. It doesn't speak of affection or desire."

He frowned harder. "You know how I feel for you, how I desire you. You just said so."

Molly nodded, and reached down, grabbing his hand and lacing their fingers together. Their pale skin looked almost ghostly in the dark.

"I know. I just wish you would say that more often than telling me that you need me. Because need makes it seem like I've become a lifeline and nothing more. You _would_ survive without me, Sherlock. And I would survive without you. It would be miserable and painful, but need is fleeting.

"I could survive without you," she repeated, "but I don't _want_ to. And that's what this all comes down to, and what I guess I should have started out with."

"You wish I told you more often that I love you?" he asked carefully. He wasn't upset; she could tell by the way his thumb stroked up and down hers, sometimes pausing on her pulse before starting over again.

Molly smiled. "That has its place, but I've never thought the word was as important as what you've shown me every day."

He nodded. "Then what does it all amount to? I'm trying to narrow it down, but I am struggling."

 _How we've grown_ , she marveled again.

"Want, Sherlock. More than anything, I need to know that you _want_ me _._ I don't think need is always a bad thing, but I think being wanted is the best kind of compliment I could ever receive."

Sherlock rolled onto his side and looked at her. Slowly, he scooted over to her side of the bed and tangled his arms around, tugging her as close as the duvet would allow. Pressing his forehead to her temple, he whispered, "You are patient with me in a way that is rare for anyone who knows me. You do get frustrated with my rudeness and sometimes you get angry about the things I dismiss, but all of that helps me to be a better person. I'd be lying if I said I that I'm not afraid that humanity you've fostered in me would go, too, if you went away. So that's why I have let myself need you. I thought it would keep you here. I hadn't thought about the negative connotations."

She nodded, closing her eyes and feeling each spot where he touched and held her.

He pressed a swift kiss to her cheek. "But, please, Molly, if there is one thing I need you to know, it's just how much I want you. You make me happy, which isn't just something I never thought I'd feel, but it's something I never thought I'd _care_ to feel. I was asleep in so many ways and you woke me up. I never knew I could want someone as much as I want you. And I am sorry you were made to question it."

Molly rolled into him, tucking her head under his chin. "I never questioned it. I just wanted to hear it. I want you, too. So much more than I knew I would."

His arms tightened around her. "Well, I am quite a catch," he said drily. "I can see why you'd want an irascible, intellectually arrogant pedant following you around."

Molly only pressed herself tighter to him. "You're wonderful. You're surprisingly sweet and can be astonishingly kind to people who don't annoy you. And you have a nice arse." When he pulled back to look wryly at her, she shrugged unapologetically. "It doesn't hurt. But don't worry. I'll think it's a nice arse even if you gain thirty stone and get ingrown hairs everywhere."

"Will you pop them for me?" he asked innocently.

She sniffed daintily. "Even I have my limits."

Sherlock grinned and kissed her one more time. "Go to sleep. I need to figure out how the sheik's wife hid the jewelry box in the tiger enclosure at the London Zoo and you're holding me up."

"How selfish of me."

"Yes. I trust you'll make it up to me. I'll wake you up for repayment in a couple of hours."

"Sure," Molly said amiably, "if by 'repayment', you mean a sharp horse bite on your thigh, then by all means, wake me up before my alarm."

"I'm going to trust that you're joking. Molly? Molly?"

She didn't bother to answer. She just rolled back over onto her stomach and tucked her arms in, relaxing into her pillow.

She fell asleep quickly, happy and wanted.


End file.
